The young man accepted the bottle with a wordless nod, taking a measured draught before returning a subtle smile. They shared this communion of spirits in comfortable silence. When the vessel ran dry, Ivan produced his own wineskin, offering the Crivian vintage he'd carried from distant lands.

  Their repose shattered at the intrusion of sounds from the riverbank. Ivan Northes motioned for Old McKenzie to remain motionless, reaching for the whalebone bow and remaining arrows positioned at his side. (Too many arrows and close-quarter weapons lost. Careless oversight.) In a hunter's crouch, he advanced with phantom steps toward the disturbance. The old messenger clutched his dagger, tension etched across his weathered features.

  Moonlight revealed the source—a congregation of Drowned Ghouls gathered at the water's edge, feasting ravenously upon a decomposing spotted deer. Old McKenzie exhaled his tension. "I feared the wolves had returned."

  "Peculiar behavior," Ivan beckoned the old man closer. "Drowned Ghouls usually only eat fish. But these are eating a deer." His voice remained hushed—they had forgone even the comfort of fire during this brief respite, wary of drawing their predators' attention. "Perhaps not their kill at all. The deer might have simply expired riverside..." His boot connected with fallen timber, producing a telltale snap.

  The Drowned Ghouls startled to attention. These aberrations—with their blue-green integument, facial, manual, and dorsal fins, and webbed appendages—swiveled clouded alabaster eyes toward the interlopers. "Cursed luck," the archer muttered, drawing string to cheek. The old man's restraining grip found his shoulder. "Steady now. They may yet dismiss our presence."

  The creatures stood diminutive in stature, exceeding a Child Ghoul by perhaps a head's measurement. But as with all creatures, numerical advantage confers devastating superiority. The assembled ghouls fixed their milky gazes upon Ivan and the elder courier, who maintained statue-like immobility. The foremost ghoul, positioned before the cervine carcass, languidly sampled its own fin before expanding the membranous structures adorning its cranium and visage—resembling some grotesque aquatic sunflower. These disc-shaped appendages oscillated rapidly as a sibilant vocalization emerged. Its companions promptly emulated this display.

  Ivan prepared to loose his arrow when unexpectedly, identical hissing emanated from behind. Whirling in astonishment, he discovered Old McKenzie producing a near-perfect replication of the ghoulish utterance.

  Confronted by their own sonic signature emerging from human orifices, the Drowned Ghouls recoiled, momentarily retracting their extended fins. Recovery came swiftly, however, and they renewed communication attempts with slightly elevated pitch.

  Old McKenzie responded with bass-register vocalizations of his own.

  This bizarre interspecies dialogue continued, leaving Ivan's head pivoting incredulously between conversants. Eventually, the Drowned Ghouls retracted their display fins and returned to dismembering the venison, humans forgotten entirely.

  Ivan pivoted, training his arrow on the old courier with theatrical suspicion. "Alright, who are you really?"

  "You think I'm the Ghoul King or something?" Kendrick McKenzie scoffed as he rejoined his companion at the waterline. "Pure improvisation, nothing more. The tonal qualities seemed similar enough to attempt mimicry. I have witnessed human-ghoul communication previously, though those weren't well-provisioned Drowned Ghouls but famished terrestrial Ghouls."

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  Ivan lowered his weapon. "And the communicator's ultimate fate?"

  "Indistinguishable remnants. Avoided closer inspection." The old man's expression contained mischievous morbidity.

  Their unexpected encounter heightened vigilance. "Our respite concludes," Ivan announced, patting his mount's flank. The horse acknowledged with a vigorous head-toss. "Black Lily has recovered sufficiently. We proceed, elder."

  Old McKenzie caressed the equine's muscular back appreciatively. "These mounts differ fundamentally from conventional stock. When Duke Dear mandated my horse exchange, I registered considerable objection. My personal courier steed had served faithfully for years—I understood its every habit intimately. Such arbitrary replacement seemed disrespectful. Now, however, the Duke's wisdom becomes evident. These specimens possess not merely docility and intelligence, but exceptional velocity and stamina." He mounted with practiced efficiency. "Why aren't royal couriers universally equipped with such magnificent beasts?"

  "Introduce them to actual battlefield conditions, blood-scent saturating the air, and their docility becomes considerably less apparent," Ivan adjusted his tack methodically. "These warhorses undergo parallel development alongside their human counterparts—rigorous training from earliest youth. The investment proves considerable. Untrained foals alone command between six hundred seventy and seven hundred twenty Glens. With Imperial trade restrictions, legitimate acquisition costs substantially exceed even those exorbitant figures."

  "Evidently even modest equines exceed my financial capacity." Old McKenzie shook his head ruefully. "Onward, lad. We've established perhaps twelve miles between ourselves and our pursuers. I've no desire to renew that acquaintance. If feasible, let's traverse West Wymar Forest tonight and establish camp upon Borna Plain. Alternatively, we delay rest until daybreak... Regardless, I'll welcome our exodus from this accursed nocturnal woodland..."

  Another disturbance interrupted his contemplation. The Drowned Ghouls suddenly expanded their fins, exchanging urgent hisses before plunging collectively into the river depths. "Most peculiar," Kendrick McKenzie observed, tracking their panicked retreat. "What elicits such terror in creatures already beyond conventional fear..."

  "Prepare yourself," Ivan's expression hardened. "Your assessment proves accurate. Our course demands continuous momentum through forest and plain alike, scarcely pausing for breath. We depart immediately if possible." He guided Black Lily into the flowing current to ford the river.

  A distinctive olfactory signature registered with both mounts. The horses shifted nervously, their anxiety palpable.

  "They've found us," Old McKenzie murmured, urging his mount forward.

  "They've found us," Ivan Northes confirmed grimly.

  She climbed higher into the atmosphere. The lacerations across her breast, sticky with congealing blood, pulsed with rhythmic agony. Aethelwing meticulously reconstructed her failed assault, seeking tactical errors in her approach. Her strategy had seemed flawless—utilizing the natural spring tension of branches to launch her attack with devastating velocity. Nevertheless, she had failed comprehensively. Her adversary had seemingly anticipated her strike, withdrawing from the targeted position milliseconds before impact, countering with a vicious slash across her torso.

  The confrontation's dynamics had inverted instantaneously—the majestic hawk transformed from hunter to quarry. The Vassily Greatbat, among the world's most formidable chiropteran predators, matched the raptor in physical dimensions. Its wingspan exceeded five meters, its musculature dense and powerful, with wing-talons capable of effortlessly rending flesh from bone. Rather than immediate pursuit, the bat had lingered atop its arboreal perch, seemingly evaluating its opponent. Aethelwing recognized the tactical patience of a superior hunter.

  Determined to reassert predatory dominance, the striped hawk executed a mid-air inversion before diving aggressively toward her opponent's last known position—only to discover the Vassily Greatbat had vanished entirely.

  Panic flared as she hovered, scanning frantically for her elusive foe.

  Powerful wind currents disturbed the forest canopy, creating a symphony of rustling foliage. The enemy seemed simultaneously omnipresent and nonexistent. The undulating vegetation obliterated reliable visual tracking, and as Aethelwing darted increasingly erratic patterns above the treetops, her movements betrayed escalating desperation.